This Morning, With Her, Having Coffee
by OnceUponASomeday
Summary: Deacon, loving Rayna in all his Deacon ways, on their first tour way back when.


There's a particular hum the bus makes as it travels down the long roads. You get used to it the way a sailor gets used to the sea, so much so that dry land becomes the less familiar terrain, your footing just a little shakier on concrete.

I feel like an old pro on the road, though I know the more experienced guys on the circuit see me as a wide-eyed kid just cutting his teeth. They say I'm decent though, that picking is in my blood, like they know it's the only thing generations of my family have been good at not screwing up.

She's in my blood, too. It's been a year and a half since I met Rayna, on a night the rain was coming down so hard it wound itself into the song she was singing like back-up.

The bus isn't fancy. It smells like worn leather and whiskey, gasoline drifting in through the open windows. We infuse it with the cool wood of guitars, the strawberries Rayna loves to eat for breakfast. Her perfume lingers in the air, cutting through the sweaty man-socks she's getting more used to with every town we roll into. Four guys in the band, one girl, and she has the lot of us whipped into shape.

I sleep in a bunk, squashed in with the rest of the guys, no special treatment because I'm her boyfriend. Everyone knows, of course, but Rayna doesn't want to flaunt it. She wants to keep things professional - to a degree - in front of other people. 'I'm just starting out,' she says, kissing my cheek and letting her lips stay just a little too long, 'I don't want to seem like I'm not focused.'

So I hold her hand under the table, sneak into her bed when snores echo from the other bunks. I kiss her at the side of the stage as the lights go down, I tell her I love her in whispers that make her shiver all the way down to her toes.

#

We break down just outside of Oklahoma. The bus judders to an abrupt halt and we pile off to see steam rising from under the hood, smoke signals rising into the sky and telling us we're fucked. The little we've made in tips and paid gigs hasn't amounted to much more than beer money, so Vince, my buddy who's joined Rayna's band for the tour, walks to the nearest payphone to call in a favour from a mechanic friend of his who lives the next town over.

The radio still works, and Rayna turns it to an unfamiliar station. Rootsy music filters out through the window, and she tilts her face back to catch the sunlight for a moment, and then saunters past us for the field beyond the roadside.

'Ray?' I call, but she keeps walking, and I hang back and watch.

The tall grass is scorched and she wanders through it, disturbing dandelion seeds that float up around her. Her jean shorts are ripped, white vest hanging loosely from her body, her hair the only vivid colour in the stone-wash afternoon light. She looks like she's in a faded old photograph, the kind you find in cookie tins in your Grandma's attic.

I dart back to the bus to pick up the battered old camera I've been using to document our first tour. When I return, she's some distance away, one hand twisted in the grass. The _click_ echoes and she turns, looking at me curiously, her head tipped to one side. I click again.

One morning not long afterwards she's sat beside me on the couch, her tanned legs pulled up in that effortless way she has. We're flirting with some lyrics, sipping strong coffee, having been unable to sleep in the heat of the unfurling day. We'd had sweaty, slow sex in the early hours, until the fever of our fusing skin had become too much and we'd lain next to each other, breathing heavily, only our pinky fingers interlaced.

It feels like stolen time. Everyone else is still asleep, and we sing in a hush, her eyes only leaving mine to flutter closed when I lean in to kiss her, softly, indulgently, between every few words, her voice only faltering when I run my hands up her thighs and bite her collarbone. She is distracting, and I tell her.

'Want me to put on some pants?' she asks, her tongue flashing momentarily into my mouth, and when I groan and shake my head a little too fervently, she laughs and pulls back to kiss me on the nose.

She leans her head on my shoulder and something catches her eye; I follow her gaze as she reaches across me and picks up the photograph from my open guitar case. I'd had it printed in Ohio, in one of those one-hour development places, and I've been carrying it with me since. She runs a finger over it and looks up at me.

'I wanted to remember how you were in that moment,' I say with a shrug, feeling strangely shy.

Rayna lifts herself onto my knee and strokes my face until I meet her eye. 'It's beautiful,' she says. 'You're beautiful, Deacon. I don't know how I got this lucky, to have you love me the way you do.' She kisses me, her arms winding around my neck. No one has ever made me feel treasured the way Rayna does; no one has ever made me feel so worthy of love.

She's still resting her forehead against mine when we pull into a gas station miles later and the rest of the band drag themselves out of bed, roused by the lack of motion. I see Vince nod to the others to leave us be, and I raise a hand to him gratefully, not wanting to let her go.

#

They write about us in the local papers, a few column inches here and there covering some of the shows we've done. We celebrate every one with Jack and jamming sessions, all of us crowded around trying to read over each other's shoulders. Rayna is the star, the one they talk about, but in some of the reviews they mention me too. They use words like _chemistry_ , and _mesmerising_ , and talk about how perfectly we complement each other. We look something like lovers, they all agree.

And then there's one paper in Kentucky, the journalist a big country fan who'd stayed to talk to Rayna enthusiastically after our set. _He looks at her like Johnny looks at June_ , the review says when we read it the next day, and to illustrate the point there's a black and white picture of us leaning in towards each other, sharing one mic. My hand is on Rayna's waist, her face tilted up towards mine, and as I look at it I feel pretty damn mesmerised myself. _They exude a rare kind of magic, like they've walked right out of a country song. Get along to one of their shows - but be quick, before they break each other's hearts and you miss your chance._

I don't talk much the rest of that day. I can't stop mulling that last line over and over, and it makes me feel sick to the pit of my stomach. There is no comprehension in my head that there could ever come a day I would hurt Rayna, or her me. The thought of it is impossible.

That night I don't creep into her bed. I get up when she bids everyone goodnight, take her hand, to her surprise, and walk right into her room with her, not caring who knows or what anyone thinks. She lets me, and I see that she's just as unsettled as I am. I slide under the covers and pull her into me, and hold her a little closer, kiss her a little harder. When she dozes off in my arms, I stay awake. I cherish every breath she takes against my chest, every murmur and sigh. She clings to me in sleep, and I promise her, silently, with everything I have, that I will never break her heart, that we will stay like this always. That I will love her, always.

#

We've been driving alongside a wide river for hours, faces out of the window, Rayna holding on tight to my hand. Her eyes are bright, seeking me out every so often to gift me with delighted smiles that make my chest throb. We decide to pull over to spend the night in one of the fields that flanks the water, roasting tins of cheap hotdogs on a fire we make from a haul of dry brush and logs.

The guys are a great time, and the lot of us are relishing our experiences on the road. It's where we were all born to be, no question about it, and the camaraderie grows with every town we travel to.

I pull Rayna up to dance when the sky is dark and the beers are flowing, the music, as ever, our entertainment. She laughs with abandon, taking my hand and letting me twist her this way and that. A couple of the guys join in, the others upping the tempo, and we shriek until we're hoarse, not a drop of coordination between us.

'We might be half-decent musicians,' Billy, the drummer, says, wiping away tears of laughter with the back of his hand, 'but we'd make a lousy dance troupe.' He drops back onto the grass and spears a marshmallow on a twig. 'Except for you Rayna, but you'd look a hell of a lot better in sparkles than we would anyway.'

I grin at Rayna and pull her towards me, slow-dancing with her in our bare feet, the grass cool and ticklish. The boys wolf-whistle and smoke, plucking their strings and humming a tune with no name.

'I didn't think I'd ever want to belong to anyone,' she whispers in my ear, and I spread my fingers on the small of her back, holding her close.

#

I'm staring up at the ceiling in the middle of the night when I think I hear feet on the floor outside my bunk. They're faint, and I prop myself up on my elbows to listen; a second later the corner of the curtain that sections off my bed is pulled back, and Rayna comes into view.

'Hey,' I mouth, sitting up as far as I can in the confined space and holding the curtain back for her.

She smiles and climbs in, and I look at her questioningly. She's never done this before. My question is soon answered, when she puts a finger to my lips and slides on top of me.

'I couldn't sleep,' she hums, 'I was too horny. I need you to do something about that, Deacon.'

My hands fly to her hips instantly and I strain upwards to kiss her, very aware that her panties are nowhere to be found. She's wearing an old T-shirt and she takes my hands and guides them up under it, and onto her bare breasts. I grit my teeth and take full advantage of them, and she closes her eyes and grinds herself into me. She's not kidding - she's horny as hell.

'Ray,' I rasp out, though I don't for a second take my hands from her breasts - I'm no fool, 'shouldn't we move this into your room?'

The smile she flashes me is dark and dirty. 'I want you right here,' she whispers, covering my hands with hers, 'where someone could hear us if we're not careful. Think you can be quiet, Deacon?'

I'm not entirely sure I'm capable of making a single sound other than something strangled that means _Yes, dear God yes,_ which thankfully she interprets.

And then she's gone, slipping from my grasp, and I'm confused for a split second until I feel my blanket being thrown back and cold air where my underwear was. Rayna throws me another devilish smirk right before she takes me in her mouth, and fuck if I'm gonna be able to be discreet here. I'd be happy for the whole damn world to know just what a lucky sonofabitch I am.

I let her make my every fantasy come blissfully true for a few minutes until I start to worry I'm going to be very unable to satisfy her in return if she carries on much longer, and I tug on her to come back up to me. She pouts a little at me for spoiling her fun, but it's forgotten when I roll her over and nudge her legs apart, sliding a finger inside her.

She squirms and digs her fingernails into my shoulder-blades, biting her lip. She's the most glorious thing I've ever seen.

'Think you can be quiet, Ray?' I toss back at her, nibbling on her ear and pressing in another finger, and she gasps, to my great enjoyment.

She mutters something filthy into my mouth after a couple of minutes and I happily - oh so fucking happily - oblige, pushing inside her and sucking on her bottom lip as she lifts her legs higher in the little space available.

We keep our mouths pressed together to muffle the moans we can't quite help, and she all but rips out a chunk of my hair when she comes, something I'm maybe just a little too pleased with myself about.

'Can I stay here?' she asks, later when she's draped over me, her eyes falling closed, and I pull the covers up around us in answer and sift my fingers through her hair until she falls asleep.

When I wake a few hours afterwards, she's gone, and I'm convinced it was a delicious dream, until she winks at me over her strawberries and sucks one into her mouth suggestively.

I don't think I've ever blushed before.

#

As the summer rolls on, she browns in the sun, freckles peppering her nose and arms. She suits it; it makes her look carefree, wilder somehow.

She's never felt free before, she confides in me. Up until now, her summers have been spent in proper outfits attending her father's events, doing her studies under the shade of a parasol. I spent mine escaping from my daddy down by the river, dangling from a homemade rope swing and fishing with my jeans rolled up to my knees. We've both had lucky escapes.

I learn more about Rayna every day. She had an aunt who died from septicemia when she and her sister were kids. Her first kiss was with a boy named Chase who she was in English class with and he tasted of pickles so she never kissed him again. She caught the flu and slept all the way through Christmas one year.

She wrote her first song when she was eight, with her mama's help, and she can still remember the lyrics - they were about a toad she'd found in the garden with one of its legs caught in the base of the sprinkler. She was completely flat-chested until she was fourteen, and boy did _that_ change overnight. She got asked to the school dance that year by the captain of the football team, who'd never looked her way until she'd come back from spring break sporting a healthy pair of still-growing C-cups. She told him to kiss her ass and went with Donovan Bryce, who got top marks in her math class and had once helped her with her books when he'd seen her struggling to carry them all.

She was nervous about writing with me the first few times, worried that she wasn't good enough, that I would think her inexperienced. She's kept the napkin I wrote a song for her on, the first night we met; it's safely tucked away in a box of photographs, inside a copy of Moby Dick, where she figures no-one will ever look. When I ask her why, she looks at me like I'm crazy. 'Because it's Moby Dick, Deacon,' she says. 'No one ever _actually_ reads Moby Dick.'

#

She's laying on her back with her feet in my lap, wearing one of my shirts, when she tells me something I hold onto like a drowning man in turbulent years to come.

'This bus feels more like home than anywhere I've ever known,' she says, as though it's either just popped into her head or she's been holding it in for a while without saying it. 'When Daddy threw me out I thought I'd lost my home, but it never was that at all.'

I give her a teasing grin and wiggle her toes. 'You mean you'd take a blocked toilet and a lumpy bed over a live-in chef and Egyptian cotton sheets?'

She laughs for a moment but it fades quickly, and she looks at me with a serious expression. 'I'd take all of this over all of that, a thousand times over. But it isn't really even about this bus, Deacon, honestly. Home for me is wherever I'm with _you_.'

#

I wake at dawn to hear her voice; it's muffled and I slip out of my bunk and quietly open the door to her room. Rayna is cross-legged on her bed with my guitar, the sheets crumpled around her, screwed up pieces of paper tossed all over the floor. She's in a scrap of lace I don't recognise that wouldn't pass for nightwear in any county I know of, one strap falling off her shoulder, her body draped over the instrument, and it's the sexiest damn thing I've ever seen.

She looks up at me without pausing, and I pull the door closed behind me. Her voice is sleep-laced and sultry, a little rougher than usual, and she's barely more than breathing out the words of a song I haven't heard before. She must have written it in the night, and as I edge closer to her, my mouth open, I deduce she's barely slept.

Her hair is mussed in every direction, her expression carnal; she looks like sex. I lower a knee onto the bed, licking my lips, and get in her personal space, and I can feel the heat rolling off her. I will her to keep going and she does, singing directly to me, more intimate than anything I could think of. When she finishes she holds still for a single beat, staring up at me, and then the guitar is discarded and her fist grasps my T-shirt and pulls me roughly down on top of her. She wraps her legs around me and kisses me as though she's starving, and the feeble layer of lace is no match for my hands; I push it up over her breasts and descend on her for only a moment with my mouth before I rip the slip over her head and bare her to me completely. She breathes heavily and her chest heaves, and I hear myself growl like a desperate man. Her cheeks are flushed and her nipples are pink and I can barely get my boxers off fast enough.

If the guys hear us - and it would be laughable to think they hadn't - they don't say; they merely offer us the coffee pot when we emerge a couple of hours later, satisfied, for now. It's always the way with us - the yearning only quiets for moments, possessing our minds and limbs as it pleases.

I watch her as she moves her head to one side to stretch out a kink I must have put there, and she catches my eye and smiles, the smile that is only mine, that says _she_ is only mine. There is nowhere I would rather be.


End file.
